


A Familiar Regret

by Defira



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:08:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defira/pseuds/Defira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days leading up to her wedding to Donnic, Aveline begins to act a little strange. Her friends try to get the truth from her, while Aveline deals with regrets and nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Familiar Regret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cherith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherith/gifts).



It wasn’t hard to see that she wasn’t sleeping well.

Fenris was the first to comment, a gruff aside made to Donnic about the dark circles under her eyes and the grim set to her jaw. While she was hardly the jauntiest of their friends at the best of times, her mood was decidedly sober in the lead up to the wedding. Not exactly the model image of the blushing bride, even if that was the last thing they’d been expecting from her anyway.

Although this ragged shadow of a woman wasn’t really familiar either.

She smiled wanly when Marian awkwardly broached the subject, waving her concerns aside as if they were nothing more than buzzing flies. “It’s just stress,” she said. “Without a Viscount, the city does its best to tear itself apart. Trying to plan for a wedding on top of that-”

“But you seem…” Marian trailed off, gesturing weakly with her hands. “ _Unhappy_.”

Aveline wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Nothing to worry about,” she said tersely. “I’m fine.” 

***

It was the same dream as always. She gritted her teeth, eyes strained as she stared grimly at the horizon, waiting for his shape to resolve itself as separate to the vague hint of trees and rocks. She knew the pattern by rote now- he would come towards her, his smile cautious but growing more joyful as he drew closer, and she wouldn’t be able contain the bittersweet delight she felt at seeing him.

It was so good to see him, if only for a while. To remember what he had been to her before he had become her great burden. Four years gone now, and for every day that she thought she had found peace at her actions, there was another where the regret and the heartache of Wesley’s death dug at her.

Here at least, she had him back for a time. Before the weight of the memories dragged them apart again. 

“It is not easy,” came a voice to her left, “to kill a spouse. It is a peculiar sort of love that drives it.”

She spun about, looking for the source of the interruption. These precious few moments with Wesley were all she had, and to have that taken away from her was the greatest injustice imaginable. This was her space, her _bastion_ \- the one place she allowed herself to be selfish.

Behind her sat an old warrior, a hefty double headed axe propped up against the rock upon which he sat. His long, grizzled hair was more grey than black, and his beard reached down to his mid chest, the odd beaded braid woven through it. His eyes were grey like granite, and his face was rough and weathered, hewn with scars and sunspots- it spoke of a life well lived, and not a gentle one at that. He looked as if he had been carved by the elements themselves, a man of ice and rock and steel.

He was dressed like a wild man of the mountains, leather and fur and feather, and when the wind blew she could smell the cold pine scent of the Frostbacks.

This man had no place in her dreams. She bared her teeth at him. “ _Demon_ ,” she snarled.

He shrugged, a weary sort of gesture. “You don’t know that,” he said, his voice like gravel and thunder.

Her hand went to the hilt of her sword, which she had not even realised she was wearing. Fortuitous indeed. “I can guess,” she said, her fingers flexing over the worn leather of the grip.

His gaze went to her hand, and back to her face. “You would resort to violence, even as your husband approaches?” He gestured behind her, but she dared not turn her back on him. “You are a woman of strange priorities.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Who are you?” 

“You are curiously aware, for one untouched by magic.”

“ _Who are you?_ ” she roared, tearing her sword from its sheath.

He smiled, his face cruel and yet burdened with an ancient sadness. “Maferath,” he said, his hand coming to rest on the grip of the mighty axe.

She did not give him time to answer. She gave a mighty roar and threw herself at him, sword raised.

***

“I know she’s not one for pomp and ceremony,” Marian said, chewing anxiously on a fingernail. Isabela reached over and slapped it out of her mouth. “But I was expecting something a little more lively from her than _this_.”

“She’s not even nervous,” Merrill said from where she sat, drawing idly in a worn notebook. Leaning over, Isabela saw what looked like the vague outline of the Eluvian before Merrill flipped the page and began scribbling on a fresh sheet. “She was so blustery and all wibbledy when she liked him, I assumed she’d at least be nervous again now that she’s going to marry him.”

“Wibbledy is not a word Merrill,” Marian said absently, staring off into the distance with a frown on her face. “I could try talking to her again, I guess.”

“For all the good it did you the first time,” Isabela said, sliding a drink in front of her. Marian ran her finger around the rim rather than drink, still preoccupied. “I say we get her drunk, a night on the town. Slumming it is good for the soul.”

“I don’t understand, being in the slums is good for you?” Marian guffawed quite loudly at the perplexed look on Merrill’s face. “I don’t… I don’t precisely think that’s true, Isabela, perhaps maybe if-”

Isabela chuckled, casting Marian a look loaded with heat and promise, a look that had her lover grinning and blushing and ducking her face down into the mug of questionable ale. “Oh kitten, you precious thing, never change.”

***

It was the same dream as always. She’d shrugged off the concerns of her friends and her subordinates yet again- it had to be bad if the night watch were commenting as they took their roster sheets- and had convinced herself everything would be fine. She tried to wear herself out before bed, throwing herself into late night exercise routines in the hope she would just fall exhausted into bed and spend the night in blissful nothingness. 

It was not to be so. 

It was the same dream as always. The horizon came and went, the sky that odd pale yellow that sometimes seemed perfectly normal and sometimes seemed so horrifyingly wrong and unnatural that she wanted to scream and claw her eyes out- and as she took the breath to scream, it would suddenly seem fine again. Sometimes she could have sworn the ground moved beneath her feet, heaving and lurching as if it were alive, even though she never actually shifted an inch.

She gritted her teeth and planted her feet firmly apart, ignoring the sky and the ground and the hundreds of other things that made this place a nightmare. She scanned the distant mist, waiting for some sign that he was approaching, her darling Wesley, her greatest regret, her dearest love-

“Your greatest weakness,” came a voice behind her.

With a snarl on her lips she spun about, sword already in her hand. Just as he had yesterday, Maferath sat calmly on the rocky slope behind her, huge war axe settled between his legs, wild hair moving in some bizarre, pine scented wind that did not touch her at all. The same deep sadness hung over him as it had yesterday, an ancient and painful knowledge in his eyes as he watched her. 

“Begone, demon!” she hissed, pointing her sword towards him. “I banished you last night. You have no place here.”

He shrugged, his eyes going past her to the horizon, to the place where Wesley would soon appear. “One would argue that you have no place here, either,” he said, his voice as creaky and weathered as she remembered. It was like the sound of an avalanche in the mountains, rocks and snow and thunder crashing together in glorious violence. “The man you love is alive and hale, but you stand here and dream of another.”

She bared her teeth at him. “I am not required to explain myself to anyone,” she snapped, “least of all _you_.”

“Perhaps,” said Maferath, and she wondered what demon he was. Was he desire? There were few things she desired as she desired Wesley, or as she desired closure for the pain his death caused. Or was he pride? Nothing hurt her pride more than knowing she had failed such a fundamental promise to her love, the oath to keep him standing beside her while she had breath to fight it. “You do need to explain yourself to _you_ , though.”

Aveline blinked in surprise, somewhat taken aback by… “Philosophy? _From a demon?_ ” She barked out a laugh, and actually risked lowering her sword. “What do you want, creature? Make your foul intentions known and leave.”

Maferath looked back to her, and the weight of those eyes nearly made her knee buckle in fear and awe. Squaring her chin, she stood her ground, rousing a gravelly chuckle from him. “You’ve strength in you,” he said, “and pride. Don’t let it be your downfall.”

His words set a fire beneath her. She lunged forward, sword all but forgotten as she grabbed the front of his ancient jerkin and hissed “I’ll not take lessons in _humility_ from a man whose name means treachery!” He did not fight her hold of him, apparently unfazed by her violent outburst. “Your pride led you to turn your wife over to her enemies, to be brutally murdered! I swore to protect my husband from a fate worse than death, and I kept that promise!”

“You swore to protect him, to keep him alive.”

“I made no such promise!” There was fire in her blood, seething, angry, blossoming heat that burned her; she thought absently that it was a wonder she wasn’t keeled over half dead from it. “I swore that they would not have him, and they never did!”

Maferath breathed out slowly, nostrils flaring in his craggy face. “Then why are you ashamed?”

The words hit her like a slap, and she staggered backwards a few steps. Her sword clattered uselessly to the ground. “I am _not,_ ” she snarled, even as she felt the truth of it burn her.

“You let the witch talk you into death, instead of bargaining with her.” Every word stabbed at her, like an accusation. The heat was gone, replaced with ice, a gaping deep emptiness inside of her so cold that it ached. “You let Hawke take the shield, when she had no right to it. You have found another… in truth, you have _forgotten_ Wesley.”

Aveline stared, her throat working as she tried to force a response out. “Are you a demon of guilt, then?” she said hoarsely, stooping to collect her sword. “A demon of pain? Because I assure you, you do naught but force me to feel both in copious amounts. Have you eaten your fill of my anguish, or must I endure your presence for longer?”

The creature shrugged, huge callused fingers resting over the hilt of the axe. He seemed too large to be real, every facet of him wild and ancient and slightly too huge to be a creature of flesh and blood. Had it lived long enough to have witnessed the time of Maferath and Andraste, or had it spent the centuries since then prowling the dreams of mortals, listening to the tales of the Maker’s Bride and her Betrayer? It seemed such an oddly specific choice for the creature to make, to appear to her as a treacherous husband in order to sap at her strength. “That is entirely up to you,” he said, dragging her thoughts back to the present. “I am here at your invitation.”

She nodded, hefting her sword in her hand as she made her decision, feeling her fingers settling into the faint grooves, the familiar weight tugging at her arm. “I honour Wesley every single day by choosing to live,” she said. “He has gone, and no demon will belittle the circumstances of his death. I gave him the best death that I could, and I am grateful for the time we had together.”

Maferath was nodding, an impenetrable look in his icy eyes. 

“And if I choose to live well, rather than wallow in guilt, then that is my choice,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “For if our positions were reversed, I know with all my heart that I would want Wesley to live well and live happily.”

The creature slowly climbed to its feet, leather and steel creaking as he reached his full height. He was taller than a Qunari, a mountain of a man.

“I loved him,” she finished, almost shouting now. “And I will not let you taint that!”

She put all her weight into the strike as she lunged forward, driving her sword straight through his chest.

***

Dawn was just cracking the horizon, the sun beginning to crest the far off hills, when Isabela made her way into the yard at the back of the Keep. The world was mostly grey and still, and she couldn’t stop herself from yawning, rubbing her arms against the lingering chill of the night. As expected, she could hear the faint sounds of ringing steel, and followed the noise to the back of the yard. There she found Aveline, only half clad for the day- she’d gone as far as pulling on her shoes and tying her hair out of her face, but her shirt was untucked, and looked suspiciously like she’d slept in it. 

She was feinting towards a wooden practise dummy, making contact with every second strike. In the early morning quiet, Isabela could hear her counting as she stepped backwards and forwards, following some complicated foot pattern that clearly made sense to her, but which Isabela couldn’t make head or tail of. Shaking her head in faint amusement, she vaulted the fence and sauntered a little closer, making sure to stay well out of range of an accidental stabbing. 

Cocking her head to the side and crossing her arms, she called loudly, “Now, most people usually find another way to work off their frustration.” Aveline jerked in surprise, obviously not expecting to be interrupted; her cheeks coloured faintly when she spotted her audience, and she ducked her head, muttering an angry sounding reply. “If I were you, I’d be taking advantage of that fine stallion of a man you’ve got squared away- if ever there was a good way to work off frustration, it’d be like that.”

“I don’t need your advice, thank you Isabela,” Aveline said stiffly, stalking over to the fence and collecting a small bundle. She sheathed her sword, and made as if to walk away.

“But I’m going to give it anyway,” Isabela said, following after her. “You need to do something about… _this_.” She gestured vaguely towards her, as if to suggest that everything about her was questionable. “It’s clear to anyone even halfway sober that you’re crazy about Donnic, and yet you’re crawling out of bed before dawn to attack poor wooden men and refusing to talk to any of us.”

“You’re up before dawn too,” Aveline snapped back, but she slowed down. A great weariness seemed to settle over her, and her shoulders slumped.

“I haven’t even gone to bed yet,” Isabela said loftily, her nonchalance ruined by another yawn. “But, admittedly, I will be heading there soon. You look like you need more sleep too.”

“Don’t need more sleep,” Aveline said quickly. “I’m completely fine.”

Clucking her tongue and rolling her eyes, Isabela stepped around her friend to stand in her path. Aveline ground to a halt as Isabela took hold of her by the shoulders. “You’re _not_ completely fine,” she said softly, not mincing her words. “And you’re not alone in this. If you need to call off the wedding, if Donnic needs to very casually move to Orlais abruptly-”

Aveline surprised her by laughing. “Nothing like that,” she said, shaking her head, and there was a genuine smile on her face, however tired. “Just some bad dreams, that’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Isabela raised a sceptical eyebrow. “This is you handling it?” she asked, casting a dubious glance down at her frazzled state. “I’d hate to see what it looks like when you’re falling to pieces.”

“I’ll be sure to make sure it happens well beyond your sight, then, should that day ever come.”

“Nonsense!” Isabela said, slinging her arm over the other’s shoulder and marching back towards the Keep with her. “If anything, I’ll need a front row seat, just so I can tell the stories one day. ‘You’ll never believe it, it was completely mad, the way-’”

“You’re not much of a story teller,” Aveline said. “Best leave that to Varric.”

The pirate made a rude noise. “He leaves out all the best bits. You should read some of my stories sometime, mine pack a punch that his don’t. I’ll tell you about it over breakfast.”

Trying to disentangle herself, Aveline said “I don’t need breakfast-”

“Of course you do,” Isabela insisted. “I’m in dire need of a plate of something greasy and salty, because I am quite hungover right now. And you’re going to join me, because you need to eat.”

“I don’t-”

“Lalalala! Can’t hear you! Food time!”

***

When she fell into bed later that night, exhausted as usual, she had no memory of dreams or bewildering trips to the Fade. Only weariness, and a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that no matter what, she had love.


End file.
